A Lightly Fictionalized Memory;
Grand Central was always a comforting place to me. The possibility of grabbing a coffee before the train ride was intriguing and the $35 ticket was all it took to leave the claustrophobia of the city. Occasionally, I would walk around without any particular destination just to feel the comfort of the early days in New York when I would go to my sisters’. She was newly married, settling in a new apartment. I had been savoring my trips to see her knowing we would stay up late to play the mystery games we both treasured playing together as kids. I glanced at my phone to recall the number of the train; always 24. The ability to take a train on my own and travel with independence was always a wake-up call that I had finally left home. I no longer needed mom to sit in the passenger seat for me to escape, from now on I could decide the future for myself.
The train was fairly empty at this time of day. The sun was starting to set, and people weren’t quite finished with work to return home. Sometimes I envied those that had the ability to live in a quiet place and benefit from the NYC salary. I knew that the benefit of having another home to visit in CT was enough to survive the chaos. The train escaped the station and my ticket sat on the corner of the seat. For the sake of nostalgia, I played the same song I would always listen to on the way to my sisters; peaceful and melodic. Buildings became scarce as the trees began to fill the window view. The sun was warm, filling the car through smudged windows reflecting on passengers’ glasses and glossy book covers. I typically captured a picture when I saw this bleeding sun vision, but this ride was sacred. It was one of two days off in a work week that I had to appreciate in the moment. There wasn’t a camera on Earth that could capture this moment and make me relive it better than the memory itself.
The sun felt so familiar. I closed my eyes to find myself next to my sister three years back. She rolled down the window shamelessly singing out the lyrics to her favorite Matt Nathanson song. Cotton candy colored skies surrounded us in the small car as I fed her a grape interrupting her singing session. Our destination was another 24 hours away, but I always liked the hotel room excursions in between long days of drive thru food and nostalgic mix tapes. She reminisced about her high school days, recalling her memories with boys in Texas from flippy-haired Starbucks baristas to bearded hipster book store clerks. As she adjusted her engagement ring, she smiled at me listing the things she will miss from her old apartment.
I opened my eyes again, the sun beginning to fade into a deep orange glow. Every 20 minutes, a lake would pass by, peaceful without disruptions or a person in sight. Upon arrival I gathered my things and escaped the car. My sister always waited in the same spot and I always knew where to find her. She was playing a song by the Goo Goo Dolls and would ask me in her enthusiastic high voice how life has been treating me in the big city. Remembering this day now, I’m sure I briefly updated her on the boys I had dated that week and the work drama I barely escaped. She always shared precious stories about smashing bizarre bugs and birds in the window view attempting to fly against the wind.
It was always routine to brew a cup of coffee upon arrival at her apartment. The bulbs lights on the walls brought me back to backyard coffee shops in Austin and her large color-coded bookshelves were filled with memories of our trips to the Half-Priced Books next to Starbucks near our house. She typically commented on my inked skin, pointing out the tattoos that used to be bare skin. My dark roast brewed in the instant coffee maker, the first sip rejuvenating me. She sat next to her kitchen window surrounded by shelves with philodendrons commenting on her brewing tea, “for this Tazo brand – black tea – always 4 minutes. Not a minute more.” I always laughed at her tea talk. She would question my doubts in her tea rituals, reminding me of her tenure at the tea shop paying off school with her days serving hipsters blends of dessert-flavored teas. We sat and discussed the typical topics, delinquent boys in New York (I liked to think my dating stories supplied her with great characters for her short stories), A24 films, life updates from the lead singer of the Goo Goo Dolls, and the latest from Nancy Drew PC games. Occasionally, her husband would intersperse hilarious commentary and kindly refill my coffee. I avoided the dreading memory of the mysterious boy I kept from her, predicting her disappointment in his criminal history and hideous tattoos. I liked to think when I left the city, New York didn’t exist for two days. My return meant a new start every time.
We slowly transitioned to the living room, booting up Life is Strange on the console. She laughed, calling out how fast we moved through the dialogue having played it so many times together. Everybody who knew me knew I couldn’t live without the repetition of my favorite songs and games in life. I had some sort of addiction to familiarity.
Hours passed as the room slowly turned dark from the setting sun. Her garlic pasta was always fresh with ripe tomatoes and a light drizzle of olive oil. We swirled noodles on our forks, predicting each scene in episodes of Felicity. She and I grew up watching the warmly lit 90’s tv shows with college and high school drama, knowing even as adults we could ever watch Felicity or Gilmore Girls enough times. There were always soundtracks replaying the hits from the Cranberries and Howie Day that would bring us back to our last road trip before we both started independent lives away from home in Austin.
Wishing time would stop, the hours passed by and I fell asleep on the couch as I usually did, only to wake up by that same familiar sun. The dewy air from outside bleeding through the cracked window, the ambience of birds chirping, and reality that this trip would have to end. Knowing I would have to return back to the polluted air and grey skies blocked by buildings and wait until I could see another sunset in Connecticut.